


How many heads I'm tearing

by orphan_account



Series: 74th Hunger Games - BBC's Merlin [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Hunger Games AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:03:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Maybe I can’t save them all, but I can still save him</i>. And he will. With his last breath, he will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How many heads I'm tearing

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this piece comes from Nickelback's _Next Contestant_.

Sixty seconds.  
  
Steel blue eyes stare at him with stark distrust, and bow lips drip with disdainful suspicion. “Right. Like I would really be allies with a Career like you.”  
  
Fifty-five seconds.  
  
“I’m not like the others. You can trust me. Please?”  
  
Fifty-one seconds.  
  
“Give me a reason.”  
  
Forty-nine seconds.  
  
He drags that wiry frame close, threading sword-calloused fingers through hair that shines like obsidian.  
  
Unsteady breaths, clinging hands, dry lips, pounding hearts.  
  
Forty seconds.  
  
“Do you believe me now?”  
  
Thirty-eight seconds.  
  
A flash of teeth, another press against his mouth. “Yes. Yes, I trust you.”  
  
Thirty-five seconds.  
  
It’s dark in the training room. He aims at the target riddled with arrow after arrow, each one missing the mark.  
  
A shadow comes up behind him, but the hairs on the back of his neck lie still. A pair of arms, followed by a chest, and two long, heart-breakingly graceful hands come up to guide him. “Not like that. Like this.”  
  
Dead center.  
  
Dead.  
  
Death.  
  
Dying.  
  
What more than twenty children will do within two days’ time.  
  
But not this boy. Not this skinny kid from Twelve, with his honest eyes and his quirky humor, and his fierce heart.  
  
 _Maybe I can’t save them all, but I can still save him._ And he will. With his last breath, he will.  
  
Twenty seconds.  
  
“Now, try it on your own.”  
  
Eighteen seconds.  
  
“Wait! Show me again? And I’ll try it on my own after that.” _Don’t let me go. If this is all I can have, then I_ will _have it while I can._  
  
Fourteen seconds.  
  
A throat swallowing. “Right. Yeah. Okay.” The arms - the _hands_ return.  
  
Ten seconds.  
  
“So, this is it.”  
  
Nine seconds.  
  
“This is it.”  
  
Eight seconds.  
  
“I guess I’ll... see you out there?”  
  
Seven seconds.  
  
“See you.”  
  
Six seconds.  
  
An awkward, expectant pause.  
  
Four seconds.  
  
“Look, whatever happens out there...”  
  
Two seconds.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
One second.  
  
“I love you.”  
  
He’s running toward the cornucopia, pushing himself faster than he ever has before, and then there’s a sword in his hand - when did that get there, exactly? - and he hears _that voice_ and he’s turning and running back, running _home_ , because even after knowing each other for such a short period of time, that is what the other boy has become.  
  
There’s Merlin, bow and arrows miraculously slung across his back, but there’s also Cenred from District One looming over him, and then Arthur’s sword slashes through the air, and Cenred’s body might still be there, but his head certainly isn’t. Merlin scrambles out from under the dead weight - _don’t think about it_ \- and utters a curt but heartfelt “Thanks,” and then he turns, notching an arrow and letting it fly into the temple of the avenging girl, Morgause, who apparently took offense at having her district partner killed so early in the Games, but now cannot take anything, crumpled and lying on the ground, furious brown eyes glaring sightlessly toward the mockingly perfect blue sky.  
  
Mordred, the stone cold boy from Three, comes at Arthur with a knife, and then he’s gone, too. Arthur cannot entirely squash down the guilt at ending the life of a thirteen-year-old, but he’d been eying Merlin almost as intently as Arthur had, for far more hostile reasons, which was simply _not okay_ , so he had to go. Besides - if Arthur hadn’t killed him, someone else would have, and from what he can tell, the Gamemakers armed the beast from Distrtict Four with a _trident_ , so it’s a fairly safe bet that Arthur’s death-blow was far kinder than what Mordred would have received from the next contestant.  
  
He scoops up the pack Cenred had grabbed prior to deciding Merlin would be a good target - or maybe he’d already thought that, what with that _stupid eleven_ the idiot was just brave enough, and just dumb enough to earn in his private session. Another arrow whistles through the air. He glances over his shoulder as the female tribute from Three - Morgana - goes down, her heartbroken eyes still staring at Mordred, even as she takes her final breaths.  
  
Merlin looks stricken, and Arthur closes his eyes tight - but only for a second, because this place is too open, is too violent, is never, ever safe - and then grabs his arm with the hand not holding his sword.  
  
It takes a second before Merlin can come back to himself, can come back to Arthur. Then he’s nodding, and they’re running, Merlin scooping up a spare pack and carrying on. No one attempts to follow the pair, either too wary after witnessing their terrifyingly effective teamwork, or too caught up in their own survival.  
  
They stop to rest and take stock of their assets, but before Arthur can truly focus, Merlin is there, in his space, taking over his vision in reality as he constantly has his thoughts, ever since they collided on the night of the tribute parade. He would protest tipping their hand so early in the Games, but there’s just not enough _time_ , and he understands, echoes, this need to simply be _with him_ until they can’t anymore.  
  
So he gives in, kissing with the same desperation, now tinged with the true horror of what their lives have become, then he pulls away, though not very far. “Next time I tell you to ‘run,’ Merlin, you _run_. All right?”  
  
“When exactly did you tell me to run? And who says I have to do what you say?”  
  
“I believe my exact words were, ‘Head as far from the cornucopia as you possibly can, and when the bloodbath is over, I will _find you_.’ And of course you have to do what I say. I’m clearly the only one who knows what he’s doing.”  
  
Merlin raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You may have been trained to kill since birth, but I know how to _live._ Of the two of us, I think I’ll be the one leading.”  
  
Arthur can’t argue with that. Merlin’s love of life is what first doomed his heart.


End file.
